Arrhythmia
by Aliet Faslami
Summary: [Post DoC] Redemption, check. Promises made, broken, check. Living life with someone by your side, work in progress. [Yuffentine, Sequel to Serendipity] ON HIATUS!
1. Parasomnia

_Arrhythmia:  
_–_noun: __Pathology:  
__--A disturbance in the rhythm of the heartbeat_

This story promises to be much more episodic, and made of mostly vignettes. Short and sweet, kidlets! They build off one another, however, so… yes. It also promises to be quite long, arching over a span of several years. So kick back, relax, and brace yourselves.

* * *

**Title:** Parasomnia  
**Timeframe:** One week after the battle with Omega  
**Rating:** T  
**Spoilers:** Mild DoC  
**Notes:** I love the present tense. And Red XII.

"_Parasomnia:  
A parasomnia is any __sleep disorder__ such as __sleepwalking__night terrors__… characterized by partial arousals during __sleep__ or during transitions between wakefulness and sleep. Parasomnias are often associated with __stress__ and __depression__."_

_

* * *

Everything was back to normal. People across the planet were returning to their lives, some achingly oblivious to what had transpired. They went about their routines, grumbling about rising prices, too-small shoes, and the smoking heaps of once-reliable vehicles. Nothing was different for them. They lived as they had before, talked, laughed, and even played._

_She hated them._

_How dare they be so ignorant? How dare they have no knowledge of the events? How dare they not be standing where she was, fighting against the tears, against the aching, engulfing hole in her heart? _

_Rain drove down into her face. For that, she was grateful. It obscured the tears force of will would not contain. A strong hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing against the ache. She wanted to return the gesture, but could only remain rooted to the spot, watching the morbid procession advance toward them. _

_Four men, clad entirely in funeral black, carried a long, narrow box of the same color towards the waiting pair. It was too narrow, too long, for any normal person to be entombed in. It was a scarecrow's coffin for a scarecrow's frame. Her body shook at the sight of it. Before them walked a creature of feline grace, even the proud angle of its head and tail subdued by the occasion. It was the only spot of color among their ranks, save for flame-colored hair, noted out of the corner of her eye. _

_She couldn't even look in that direction. She'd already berated them severely, having to be forcefully removed by the woman now holding her shoulder. They had no right to be here, no matter what the leader said he owed the dead man. _

"_It's all your fault," she'd shouted at them. "If you and your stupid company hadn't done all this… this _shit_…! None of this would've happened! Get out of here! This is your fault!"_

_The words rang hollow in her memory now, struck so juvenile by the scene before her. A child's sobs could be heard from the other side of the redhead, and one of the pallbearers winced at the sound. It broke all their hearts anew. _

_Reaching them, the cat took his place before the pair, head bowed, as if surveying the grim furrow in the earth before them. There was no marker, not yet. None of them were prepared enough for this to create one. Least of all the person who wanted one most. The men slowly set down their burden, rain imitating tears in their eyes. All save one were too stoic, too brash, to show their grief. But they felt it, all the same. _

_They moved to their positions, one at each corner, and took up a rope. No one moved. _

_The swordsman was first, nodding to the others._

_The big man followed, squaring his shoulders against his sorrow._

_The pilot heaved a sigh, cursing at nothing in particular._

_Last came the uniformed man, reluctantly lifting his rope into pale and shaking hands._

_As one, they lowered their comrade into the earth. She felt a scream of denial building in her throat. Only the pressure of her friend's hand on her shoulder kept her from giving voice to the cry. Rain drove harder into her face. She let the tears come, sobs shaking her body. The woman beside her pulled her close, almost crushing her in an embrace._

"_It's okay."_

_But it wasn't. Nothing was all right anymore. She'd broken her promise to him. She'd let him down. He needed her, and she didn't come for him, as she'd promised. She broke her promise and now, as a result, he was gone. _

_There was a dull, muted sound as the box hit the bottom. _

"_No."_

_Not even the comfort offered could hold back the cry now. Not when the men took up their shovels, filling in the wound in the earth. It was too final a chorus. _

"_No!"_

_The scene fell away, dissolving into darkness._

"Vincent! _No_!"

Dawn breaks, and snaps her free of the dream, plunging her into a waking nightmare. There is no relief from the dream, not while there is no word from the ruins. For over a week, she has left her phone on, so much that her batteries have died countless times.

Curled in bed, tears and sobs ripping from her throat, she wishes for the thousandth time to be allowed to accompany the search parties slowly sifting through the remains. Anything would be better than sitting here, far away from the gutted city, hanging on the ring of a phone.

She should be there. She promised him.

Instead, she is here, huddled up, hiding from a dream. Tifa has said she needs her here—that someone needs to help her watch the children and the bar while the others search. Red is here, she has seen him prowling about. Why can't Red stay, why can't she go and help?

A sudden weight startles her and causes the bed to bounce. She uncurls out of surprise, half expecting to see one of the children, roused by her noises, to be staring back at her. Instead, she meets a single, yellow eye.

"A nightmare again?" the cat asks, tail lashing. His voice is soothing, rich in ways none of the others' are. When she nods, miserable, he continues. "You don't usually dream so loudly. I was concerned."

She rubs her hand across her eyes. "I want to be there," she whispers. It does not matter how quietly she speaks; Red will hear her. "I promised him I'd be there… if he's hurt… if he's…" Her throat closes. She can't bring herself to say it.

"That is why Tifa needs you here." The cat's voice is a purr. "She is just as worried as you, we all are." He makes no protest as she wraps her arms about him, only flicking an ear as her damp cheek contacts it. "As odd as this sounds, while she waits for Cloud, she needs you." The yellow eye regards her again. "Both of you are missing someone dear to you. It is better you are together."

She does not want to continue crying. Red may very well decide to abandon his post as comforter, should she dampen his fur. Yet the tears come anyway. She is relieved when, rather than pull away, he leans into her with little more protest than a huff.

"I just… I want him to come back…" she chokes out.

"As do we all," Red answers.

Neither speaks for a time. She gradually calms, the simple breathing of the cat relaxing fear-tensed muscles. He allows her arms about him until the sounds of others rising drift up from the bar below. It is then he gently pulls away, nudging her towards the door.

"You should speak to Tifa," he advises. "Perhaps word came in the night."

Even though she knows the answer, she nods, rising. Red stretches, making no move to follow. He is quiet until she is nearly out of earshot.

"He will come back to you, Yuffie. He always returns. It will be all right."

But, as Tifa confirms her fears—there has been word, but nothing has been found—those words ring hollow in her heart. It is all she can do to bring frustration out to mask the bitter sorrow.

"_It will be all right."_

"_It's okay."_

It is not all right, not okay. Not while she is not at his side. Not while he remains lost.

Not while she has a broken promise carving another wound in her heart.


	2. Convalescence

**2. **

**Title:** _Convalescence_  
**Timeframe:** One month after the battle with Omega  
**Rating:** M –Curse you Cid.  
**Spoilers: **Major DoC

**Notes:** Basically my take on what happened between the beginning of the credits and the scene in the cave. While Vincent may be indestructible to an extent, not even he could walk away from something like that completely unscathed.

… Plus, Cid seriously needs more love. His dialogue is as fun as Cloud's is a pain.

* * *

_Convalescence_

"Where did you find him?"

"In Sector One."

"All the way out there?"

"Yeah."

_Blur of tattered red and black on white. Wheels shrieking protest. So much white. Frantic calls and questions. Doctors summoned, while through it all a lone blonde stands stoic, phone to his ear. Beside him is another, swearing at the top of his voice, filling the space with noise enough for three people. They have dropped in from nowhere, bearing their companion, their surprising hero. He looks nothing of the sort right then. Attached to many machines, all calling out to one another. All informing the doctors, the visitors, the guardians, that despite appearances, the pale, washed out lump of occasional humanity still lives._

"… Will he wake up?"

"They hope so."

"_Hope_?"

_He hands the phone to the other man, who pauses to put out the cigarette. _

"Yeah, hope. Idiots got no fuckin' idea what's goin' on here. He ain't dead. Well… y'know. Dead_er_. That much we got. He ain't even banged up too bad. 'Sides that, he's out colder 'an Northern Crater in the middle 'a winter."

"Should we come out there?"

"Eh, prolly. Bring the kid out 'ere too. Hell, maybe she can pester 'im awake, or somethin'. Y'know?"

"We're on our way."

For some reason, this time, the nausea did not abate as her feet touched the ground. Perhaps it was the sterile white of the treatment center—not surprisingly, the only part of WRO headquarters still in working order. Two weeks since she'd arrived, two weeks in the same room, watching over him, trying to mend her broken promise. As if sitting by his bed would atone for anything.

The others drifted in from day to day, most often Cloud, Tifa, and, when he could spare the time, Reeve. The others came when they could, but obligations required their attention elsewhere. She was the only one who could, and would, stay. Her phone went off many times, someone calling her away most likely, but she ignored it. This was her duty, after all. Even the girl, the _computer_, showed her face a few times. She didn't come too near the bed, however, preferring to stare with silent, mako eyes. Yuffie paid her little mind. If Shelke wanted to stare, to be cold, that was her business.

Yuffie's business lay beside her, ashen, silent, and, the doctors said, near catatonic. There were no injuries, not anymore. What beating his body had taken, it had healed even before their arrival. Only scars remained now, shiny, puckered lines slow to vanish. Why he would not awaken, no one could say. He simply lay there, eyes shut, heavy circles below them marring too-fair skin. His breathing, though easy, came shallowly, sparsely. They had taken his things, leaving his torso bare, for simple access of their instruments, they said. It made him look smaller, she thought, to be rid of cloak and leather.

Sometimes, the others would take over her vigil—most often Tifa. Gently, forcefully, they would pry her away from her chair, make sure she stayed fed, and, firmly sent her to bed like a reluctant child. She slept well, despite the anxiety. Nothing too terrible could happen if one of the others were there. Even so, her reprieve was always short-lived. Something would come up, and they would be forced to depart, promising to return as soon as something changed. It wasn't that they fretted any less than she did. They simply had more to attend to than she.

"Bullshit," grumbled the pilot on one of his visits. Errands and the demands of a marriage kept him away most of the time, but she found herself looking forward to his blustering mannerisms, as much as they annoyed her. At least he could fill the silence. "All this beepin' and whatnot. Bullshit's what it is. All he needs is sleep. Not this shit. You'll see."

"Ass," she told him. "You're not a doctor. How would you know?"

Cid only snorted. "Don't need t'be one t'figure this out," he said. He fumbled in his pockets, pulling out an abused pack of cigarettes. "You'll see, kid. Couple more days'a nappin', he'll be back an' chewin' us out fer coddlin' 'im like this." A frown. "Well… y'know if Vince ever chewed anyone out."

She found herself smiling. Her amusement, however, quickly turned into a tirade, as the pilot lit up next to her. A shouting match ensued, bringing everyone within earshot. He finally stormed out, raging, when Yuffie unceremoniously threw his pack out the narrow, boarded window.

"You should quit anyway, old man!" she shouted after him. "I don't know how Shera kisses you when you smell so nasty!"

That moment brought light to the day; she had never stopped enjoying harassing the man, after all. It faded quickly as twilight, as she returned to her post. Her hand slid back onto his, her smaller fingers tracing the smoother skin between his knuckles. It was an achingly familiar gesture, one that brought to light images of a Nibelhiem inn, months ago. It hadn't worked then… and it wasn't working now.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, one dark, lonely night. "I'm sorry I broke my promise…"

He didn't answer, not that she'd expected him to. All the same, her spirits sank. She pulled his hand close, resting it against her face. His skin was cool to the touch. Of their own volition, her eyes closed as the chilliness came into contact with them. Tears pooled in her eyes, just as they had so many nights past.

"I'm sorry," she said again. It was as if the words were a prayer.

"Why…? Did we… lose?"

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. If she moved at all, the moment would cease to exist. Slowly, her eyes slid open, flicking nervously to his face and half expecting to be dreaming.

Even as she met his bleary gaze, she felt as if she were dreaming. There was a new light there, a relief she had never before seen in the red depths. On that alone, it had to be a dream. Her fears were confirmed as, still groggy, he returned the pressure of her fingers, concern in his eyes. This had to be a dream. Such a thing could only happen in a dream.

"What's wrong…?"

She sputtered. "I… wha? What'd you…?"

He gave a slow blink. "You're crying," he informed her. "Did we lose…?"

Now she could feel the tears streaking her face. For the first time since the battle, they are from relief, from joy, instead of dread. A weak smile broke through, followed by an equally frail laugh. "Nah, Vinnie," she said. "Nah, we beat them good. So did you."

Amazingly, his lips twitched, the expression forming what most people considered the ghost of a smile. The sight of it sent more tears running down her cheeks. "I gotta call everyone," she managed. "They wanted to know when you woke up…"

"Was I out… that long?" He sounded tired still, and his eyes fluttered occasionally.

"Yeah…"

He opened an eye wide, studying her. "Then… I'm sorry."

Her fingers tighten around his hand. A smile is on her face. All is as it should be. "Just get better."

For an entire week, he allowed himself to stay. For only a week, her mind was at ease. Then, he was gone again, and she wanted nothing more than to punch him in his pale, stoic face.

And things were right again.


	3. Laryngitis

3. **Title**: Laryngitis  
**Timeframe**: One Month after the battle with Omega  
**Rating**: K+  
**Spoilers**: Mild DoC  
**Notes**: Taking a shot at a new format for this. Apologies if it's awkward to follow… it should be clear shortly.

* * *

"How're you feeling?"

"Gross."

"Hm."

"But… shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?"

"What?"

"Never mind. How's your head?"

"I'll survive."

"Heh, figured. Should've hit you harder."

_Metal on metal—footsteps on the deck—getting closer. _

"Were you surprised? To see _her_ instead of one of us, I mean."

"Something tells me I shouldn't be."

"Nah, they kinda locked me in a closet. Probably because I kept yelling how I wanted to kill you. I think I scared them."

"Hm. So I should be grateful you only gave me a blow to the head instead."

_Light, weak laughter. Covered quickly for fear of sickness._

"Yeah, you really should."

"Then thanks. I suppose."

"No problem. Anytime you need to be smacked for running off, making us all worried sick, just call me! I'll whack you so hard you see stars!"

"I don't doubt that."

_Silence. Engines rumble in the background._

"… Was it any different?"

"Hm?"

"After everything that… happened… was that place… was she any different?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I've been trying to figure out why you'd wanna go back _there_ of all places. I mean… there's places a lot closer to brood. Why there? Did something change? Did she turn into something other than a big chunk of materia?"

_Metal on metal. An apologetic wince. A flash of red out of the corner of an eye. The rail creaks with new weight._

"She hasn't changed..."

"I'm sorry. I… that was stupid to say—"

"But, I have."

_A glance. A small smile._

"Not really."

"Hm?"

"You still don't talk hardly enough."

"Hm."

"See? Right there. If anyone else were around, they'd get mad. Or they'd start muttering just to prove me wrong. You still act like you've got no voice or something."

"Sorry."

"Nope, you're not getting off that easily. You've gotta show me you've changed. You've gotta… um… tell me a story. Yeah, you heard me. I'll stand right here, all nice and quiet and keeping lunch down, and you just talk."

"I don't have any stories…"

"That's crazy. You've gotta have some."

"None with 'happy endings'."

_A scoff and an eye-roll. Hand reaching out, punching playfully._

"You've got this story, Vinnie. So far so good, right?"

_Red glance flicks down. Ghost of a smirk._

"This story hasn't ended yet."

"So what? Tell me anyway. And don't leave out the cool parts where you flew around with that giant gun. Cid was so jealous. I mean, you were _flying_! What was that like?"

"Yuffie."

"What?"

"I thought you said you were going to be quiet."

"I'll be quiet when you start talking."

_Low, rough mirth—short-lived, but there all the same. _

"All right."

_The world slides by below, peaceful. _


	4. Sucrose

4. **Title:** _Sucrose_

**Timeframe:** Five Months after _Laryngitis_

**Rating:** K+

**Spoilers:** Mild DoC

**Notes:** Mindless almost-fluff, with a bit of expository musings. And cream puffs! Plus, it kind of sets the tone for their pre-romance relationship, if you get my meaning. I'm also churning these chapters out pretty fast. Unfortunately, things will slow down after the next update. Classes are getting harder... my appologies! In return for your patience, and reviews, the next chapter will be far... darker.

_"In general use, non-scientists take 'sugar' to mean sucrose, also called 'table sugar'." _

* * *

"I'm hungry." 

With no further warning than that, Yuffie grabbed his arm, propelling him across the square and into a small café. Passersby stared, some more openly than others, at the sight of the small, brightly clothed figure towing the tall, imposing man behind her. Still more stares were earned from the plump woman behind the counter of the café. She covered it quickly, turning the expression into a bland smile.

He shouldn't have minded. It was useless to care so much about the looks, the confusion they garnered from the casual observer. All the same, it rankled.

"Buy me something."

Her voice caught him off-guard. He looked down. Dark eyes were turned up at him, full of innocent pleading. A shy smile graced her face. It was her most dangerous expression.

"You have your own money," Vincent said flatly, well-aware he was playing into her little trap. Whether she "borrowed" it, or whether it came from their dark-haired employer, chances were, Yuffie had some amount of cash on her at any given time. At least, that was how things usually worked in their months of work.

"_The WRO needs a couple of people out in the field. You two are the best we have right now."_

"_So we're doing your dirty work?"_

"_In a way."_

Her voice snapped him back from the past. "Well… I did. But… I kinna…" Yuffie's gaze fell from him to her feet. "I spent it all." She looked up again, hands clasped. They released each other quickly, flailing out at her sides as she spoke. "And Reeve won't send any more for a whole week! Vinnie, I'll _starve_!" One step closed the distance between them. He didn't budge. "You gotta help me!"

He made the mistake of blinking. The proprietor was finding the entire exchange hysterical, and made frantic efforts to stifle the sentiment. Not wishing to give her a further show, he started for the door. "You're exaggerating," he said. "We have a schedule to keep."

"Just a minute!" Yuffie's shoes squeaked against the tiled floor. "I'd like a cream puff," he heard her say.

Only slightly puzzled, he turned back to face her, and was promptly confronted with the sight of the girl handing over a few gil from an abused, black leather wallet. He sighed. It really was stupid of him to have blinked.

"How long have you had that?" he asked, after she had received her treat and all but shoved him into a seat. She sat across from him, contemplating the large, custard-filled pastry before her with no small amount of glee. Said custard proceeded to squirt out either side as she took a far too-large bite.

"Since payday," she snickered, licking her lips.

_There goes that theory._

"You just crammed all your cash right on in there." Another bite, accompanied by a munching sound effect—care of Yuffie. "Easy pickin's! It was so fat, I didn't even have to stick my whole hand in."

That gave him cause to hesitate. As if sensing her description had gone awry, Yuffie quite nearly choked, face flushing. They both knew where exactly she would have had to place her thieving hand to collect the ill-gotten wallet. Although, how exactly she'd managed to duck under his cloak, and dip her hand into his back pocket was very much a mystery.

"It's not what you think!" she shouted frantically, waving her arms about. "I mean… it sort of is! But I didn't like, feel your butt or anything—oh geeze…" Yuffie's face continued to redden as she tried to desperately explain herself. The effect only caused the flecks of custard speckling her face to stand out brighter. "I'm not making this any better, am I?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "You're a mess," he told her.

"That's not fair!"

"I mean it."

Slowly, as if not to startle her, he reached out, brushing a blob of custard from her cheek. For lack of anything better to do with it, he held it up for her examination.

Yuffie gaped.

"It's all over your face," he continued, trying to flick the blob off his gloved finger. "You need a napkin." Dark brows furrowed. "Or several."

Sputtering, she stood up to do so. As she did, he caught her wrist, gently taking back his much-abused wallet. Her snicker gave him pause, and he cracked it open, only to be met with the sight of leather, not gil. He stifled a sigh.

"Yuffie…"

"Yep?" She plunked herself back into her seat. All traces of mess were absent from her face. "You wanna bite?" The pastry dangled under his nose, still oozing custard.

"Where is the money?"

She gave an evil chuckle. "Right under your nose, Vince." A dark glance downwards implicated the pastry. "You want your fair share, right? After all… you did buy it.

To argue with her in this mood was pointless. She would keep waving the thing around until he gave in, or left. Considering he had no idea as to what exactly she'd taken from him earlier, it was against his better judgment to leave. Plus, that would only earn him a series of shouts, followed by a frantic chase down the streets, and, if he were exceptionally unlucky, an attempted blow to the head.

Awkwardly, Vincent inclined his head, keeping his hair well away from the pastry. The bite he took was delicate in comparison to hers, as if he were loathe to touch it as much as possible. It was almost too sweet for his liking.

Victorious, she snatched it back, reclining in her chair to finish her desert. A mischievous grin plastered itself across her face.

"Now, give me my gun back."

Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline. "How'd you know I…?"

He didn't bother explaining. Some things, you simply missed more than others. Huffily, she returned the weapon, purposefully leaving traces of custard across the sleek metal. As her attention remained focused on her food, he set to cleaning it, pausing only slightly when a particularly large glob attached itself to his glove. He glanced at her, then back to the glob.

_It was _almost_ too sweet._

"I saw that!" Yuffie shouted, triumph in her voice. She nearly fell over in laughter, watching him remove his now-clean finger from his mouth. "I knew you'd cave!"

Black brows arched. "Only getting my money's worth," Vincent replied shortly, then set back to cleaning his gun.


	5. Hemotoxin

5. **Title:** _Hemotoxin_  
**Timeframe**: One week after _"Sucrose"_  
**Rating**: M (YAY BLOOD!)**  
Spoilers**: Moderate DoC  
**Notes**: Even after you save the world, there's no guarantee the roads are going to be safe for walking! Plus, violence is cool. You can thank my roommate for the inspiration for this chapter—her and her collection of "Snakes On A Plane" music. On a sad note, this will be the last "quick update" for a while. Classes are getting tougher… bear with me, this fic will continue!

"_Hemotoxins are toxins that destroy red blood cells, disrupt blood clotting, and/or cause organ degeneration and generalized tissue damage... An injury due to a hemotoxic agent is often very painful, and permanent damage, such as loss of an affected limb, is possible even with prompt treatment."_

* * *

The whirr of her weapon through the air is as comforting to him as the crack of his gun firing is to her. It means the other is still there, still in well-enough shape to be fighting. Those sounds soothe the soul, even as the heat of battle sends fire throughout the blood, keeping them on their feet, driving them on to success.

It was supposed to be a routine surveillance mission. They were only supposed to be checking for the legendary, monstrous snakes in that part of the world, not doing battle with them. Rumor had it a few had returned, making the paths through the swamps southeast of Midgar all the more treacherous.

It was supposed to be easy.

Yet now, without warning, they are under attack, a swarm appearing from nowhere, all glistening fangs and scales, oozing venom and saliva. The creatures are met with a hail of gunfire, driven backwards by a rain of materia-conjured thunderbolts. Shuriken, alongside clawed fist, hammer them. The two warriors are standing back to back, then, suddenly, leap apart, battling from the air as well. All seems to be going well, the tide is turning in their favor. No shot goes wide, the shuriken does not bury itself inconveniently in a tree trunk—they are doing exceedingly well.

Until the sound of her shuriken ceases, followed closely by the absence of gunfire.

He is too distracted by the silence to notice what is behind him. He has paused too long, searching for a sign of her. When it strikes, he can barely bring an arm in protection—its fangs scrabble across gilded metal, then crunch down. He shakes it off, already feeling the sting of its bite, right down to the scant flesh remaining in his left hand. Small holes are punched straight through the metal. Before it hits the ground, he puts a bullet through its skull.

Her cries reach him. She sounds angry, not in pain. For that, he is oddly thankful. Trees obscure his vision, each one twisting with more than one serpentine foe. How could she have gotten so far away so quickly? Gunfire rings out again as, ignoring the throbbing pain coursing throughout his arm, he runs for her voice.

She is holding her own, though barely. As the shuriken flies, she fires through her stores of materia, everything from lightning to ice blazing through the mounting foes. When this fails, she resorts to fighting them head on, going so far as to kick a few in their arrow-shaped heads. Scratches mar her bare skin, lying beside more troubling bite marks, all dripping blood. The flesh around the bites is swollen.

"_Could use a little help here!"_

There is no satisfactory answer he can give. Instead, he merely fires into the pack surrounding her, trying not to feel the convulsions of his injured, metal-clad arm. He does not realize how the injury has dulled his senses, nor does she. Almost simultaneously, they are thrown to the ground, adversaries tearing into any exposed flesh.

Blood fills the air with its hot, copper and salt tang. It is impossible to tell just whose blood it is—his, hers, the snakes? She is trying not to scream, voicing the pain through whimpers instead. Materia crackles feebly, barely enough to toss a few aside, thanks to the venom in her system. He is in no better shape, though he is fighting to get to her. Each crawling step sends agony shooting through his limbs. He makes no sound, regardless.

It is hopeless. So afflicted, they can do little to protect themselves. It is all he can do to bring himself nearer to her, in hopes of shielding the smaller body. She is still struggling, albeit barely. The strategy seems to work, as the creatures become intent on tearing him apart, rather than the one he protects.

Something inside clicks, snapping free. In that instant, he remembers.

_Not everything within him has followed Chaos back to the planet…_

A howl, tearing from a suddenly inhuman throat, splits across the twilight. Claws, now gracing both hands, rip into scaled flesh. New strength floods through him, washing away the poison, washing away the streaks and smears of blood. The bare hints of steely sunset illuminate the Beast. It stands in the center of the carnage, towering over her crumpled form, lips curled back from gaping fangs.

She gives no indication, save the soft hitch of breath, that she has noticed. The monster is watching over her, and that is all that matters.

Their enemies coil about in confusion, then, with renewed vigor, launch themselves at the beast. It catches the first, crushing the serpentine skull with a twitch of its fist. The resulting explosion showers him, the Beast, in gore, but he has no time to worry about such things. Others are upon him.

A particularly large serpent springs, mouth wide. Effortlessly, he grabs the jaws in hand. New, sleek muscles tense, then wrench back, pulling the jaws along. The snake's entire head splits, as if the Beast has opened a seam, spilling blood, bile and venom all across the ground. He continues to pull, until the entire creature lies in two pieces at his feet.

Those remaining are soon ripped to shreds, torn asunder by tooth and claw. He waits for them to come to him, and as they spring, he destroys them. The whole while, he stands above her fallen body, letting none come within range of her. All around is littered the writhing, bleeding corpses of dismembered snakes. Venom pools beside the blood, lending its stink to the air already fetid with decay.

Gradually, the tide turns, the creatures slither back into the trees, not one leaving unscathed. His form is flickering now, sliding back from monster to man. He sinks to the ground beside her, breathing heavily. He looks ragged.

She looks worse. Bites are standing out, bruised, swollen angry red on warm skin. The flesh is puckered, raw. Her breath comes short, gasping in her throat. She will not last.

Despite his mounting fatigue, he pulls her into his arms, feeling each breath she is struggling to take. His heart skips every time. He does not quite know why. Each step drags as he locates their packs, feeling his movements blur from the fatigue of his change. They stopped before coming here, they stocked up before they left… there has to be an Antidote. By the time he finds it, she has almost stopped breathing.

Strange fear takes him over. It is adding speed, strength to his movements. The green bottle is uncorked, her head gently tilted back, his body supporting hers. Her wounds still bleed freely, but now the healing, saving, potion is draining down her throat. He has to sit, his legs are trembling. Even so, he does not set her down, does not let her body lie on the ground. She lies prone in his arms, steadied breaths matching the slow, albeit unsteady rhythm of his heart.

They remain still until the sun truly sets.

Only then does she rouse, drawing in great lungfulls of air, smaller form shuddering against his. Out of relief, out of reflex, he pulls her closer. She reacts with a curious, tried sound and he loosens his grip.

"_Did we… lose?"_ she whispers. A small, sardonic smile is playing across her face.

He heaves a sigh. Her arms twine around him in return. As night falls, they remain in the same position, supporting one another, reassuring the other. For once, touch is surer than the sound of their weapons.

As long as they can hear each other, feel each other breathe, then they are both still alive.


	6. Conduction

6. **Title**: _Conduction_  
**Timeframe**: Three days after "Hemotoxin"Rating: K+  
**Spoilers**: N/A

**Notes**: You love the shameless fluff. Don't deny it. Part of this will only make sense if you've read _Serendipity._  
Haha! Surprise! This chapter wrote itself a hell of a lot faster than I thought it would!

_Conduction: a type of temperature regulation; heat escapes from your body e.g. when you sit on a cold rock._

* * *

Some nights, there is no way to get warm. Blankets, a fire, and hastily prepared food help, but nothing can truly chase the chill from the air.

This was one of those nights.

No matter how many blankets Yuffie swathed herself in, no matter how many cups of watered-down tea she drank, no matter how close to the fire she curled, the tense feeling of chill still lingered in her bones. She wasn't shivering, or even unduly chilled. The edge of cold simply seeped into her, sending an ache through barely-healed wounds. Not that the lumpy ground beneath her helped those aches any. What she would give for a simple cot, tucked away somewhere in a nice, warm inn.

But, it was to no avail. They had a job to do. And while she was all for saying, just for one night, "Screw it," and heading for the nearest town, her partner was another matter altogether. Knowing him, he wouldn't be up for leaving the swamps until he was absolutely sure that every last scaly menace had been obliterated. That could mean weeks of camping in the desolate marshes. Neither of them were strangers to traveling by any means, however, the thought of days on end, of his awkward attempts into the realm of conversation, of trying to find a relatively dry place to make camp, worried at her nerves.

It wasn't the thought of him that annoyed her. Far from it. Vincent was the one thing making this whole venture bearable. Alone, the silence amidst the sounds of nature would have been unbearable. With him near, the silence changed from cloying to companionable, shifting between him and her like real words never did. She liked to think she could read his silences. One meant, "No," another "All right," and still another was reserved for "Yuffie, you're going to break your neck, get out of that tree". The latter was always accompanied by the shake of his dark head, and a muffled groan. It made her laugh. His silences ran the gamut from patient, to frustrated, to brooding and back. They spoke more than she did, on occasion--she was glad to listen to them.

However, right now, in place of his silence, she would have preferred the quiet creaks of an inn settling for the night.

"Why's it so cold anyway?" she grumbled, sitting up. "It's not like it's winter yet or anything. Stupid seasons. They're doing this just to bug me, I know it."

The red and black bundle on the other side of the fire stirred from its position, reclined against a convenient tree trunk, a sleepy "Hm?" drifting from his direction.

"Were you seriously asleep?"

Red eyes focused on her, brighter in the orange firelight. "Thinking," he answered.

She threw her hand to her mouth in mock horror, drawing the blankets tighter about her in the same motion. "I thought you were keeping watch!" she scolded, on the verge of laughter. "You're neglecting your duty! We could be eaten by something big and scaley in the middle of the night!" Scooting a touch closer to the warmth of the fire, she forged on. "If you're so tired, why don't you turn in? I can keep watch, no problem."

"You need the rest," he pointed out, lifting his head from the nest of his cloak.

"I'm not the one falling asleep on watch," she replied neatly. Pulling a blanket about her head like a hood, she peered critically at him. Her brow furrowed as she noted the hollowness etched around his eyes, too familiar for comfort. "Y'know, you're lookin' a little off. You're not sick... are you?"

He shook his head. "You'd be the first to know otherwise," he told her.

Preening at the words, Yuffie grinned. "Heh, true! Since I'm so observant and all." Another silence fell. She shifted in place, too awake now to fall asleep, too cold to sit still. For lack of a better option, she discreetly watched him, dark eyes playing over the deepening shadows about his eyes, noting each tear still lingering in black leather--the last of his scars from their battle. When his head drifted down toward his chest, she stifled a snigger. "Hah! I knew it!"

Vincent's head jerked back up, arching an eyebrow in her direction. His expression only clouded further as she pointed an accusing finger in his direction, mimicking the look on his face.

"I bet you haven't slept in days, huh Vince?" she said. "Even you need a nap every now and then." Her arms folded, once again drawing the blankets tighter.

He gave the headshake-sigh combination that usually earned a chuckle from her direction. This time, however, it only served to irk her. "I've been keeping watch," he said simply. "We haven't finished yet. There's more out there."

"Yeah, and if they show up, I'll fry 'em before they eat you." Yuffie blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Quit being stubborn. You're seriously worse than I am. Loosen up." He opened his mouth to protest and she cut him off. "And don't you say anything about me and being hurt," she warned. "I'm fine." Now she threw a wink in his direction. The quirk of surprise in his otherwise wearied face was well worth it. "I had you around to save me, after all. I mean, not that I really _needed_ saving. I could've taken 'em. Swear I had a summon on me somewhere. If I'd found it, _man_ would those guys have been in for a surprise..."

Now it was her turn to be cut off. "How are you going to stay awake?" he asked. There was a note of smugness in his voice, as if he expected a simple question to defeat her.

It almost did. Then, her gaze returned to the much-abused clothing he wore, even as her mind drifted back to another time. An idea crystallized. "I'll show you," she snickered. "Take off your shirt."

The look he shot her was priceless--albeit it was not much more than a raising of slim, black brows. But, for him, it was akin to the dropping of a jaw. Her own face split into a devilish grin. She had to resist the urge to run with his train of thought, just to see how scandalized an expression he was capable of making. Part of her lived for this, for the times when even imposing, stoic Vincent Valentine could be caught off-guard, disarmed by words alone. "Oh calm down," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's full of holes is all. Don't you have any spares? Anyway, I'm gonna fix it up for you. I'll stay awake, you take a nap, and your shirt gets better."

One of his eyebrows returned to its normal position, though the other remained in a skeptical quirk. "It's fine," he said.

"Is not."

"Yuffie..."

"I can do this all night, y'know? I've had lots of practice."

He sighed, shaking his head. It was as good as a "yes", to her. Mindful of the blankets, she prowled over to her pack, rummaging through until the needed items were found--a sparse repair kit and a faded, familiar dark-blue sweater. She tossed the latter to him, and silently congratulated herself as a faint smile twitched onto his lips. "You kept this?" he asked, studying the heap of material in his hand.

"Uh, kinda. I figured the guy who had it last wouldn't want your germs all over it," she said. In a few paces she was beside him. She flopped down where she stood, looking up at him expectantly. "Well? Hurry up and change. I don't have all night to wait on you."

After regarding her for a moment, he stood, slowly. There was no arguing with her in this mood, he knew from experience.

The cloak fell to the ground, pooling between them. Once again, she found herself struck by how the loss of the garment changed him. He was smaller, more slender, while wearing only the black. Now that there was no shell, no blood-colored outer skin, to hide behind, she found herself unable to look away, even as he began peeling off the leather shirt, carefully undoing unseen zippers clustered about the left arm and easing them over the claw. He looked so much more vulnerable, standing over her, bare-chested, the fire painting warm shadows over too-pale skin. She was both disappointed, and relieved when he slid the sweater on, returning to his original position. Neither spoke, she simply took the tattered shirt, while he wrapped himself back into his cloak, settling back against the tree.

Companionable silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft oaths she uttered when the needle unexpectedly pricked her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him begin to drowse again, dark curtain of hair sliding forward to hide his face from view. Idly, Yuffie wondered why he always had to be reminded to fix his clothes. Didn't he notice the holes? It couldn't be lack of cold. From the way he was bundled up, he preferred being warm just as much as she did.

_Speaking of which…_

Sewing required free hands, which meant she was forced to part the blankets, thus sacrificing some of her precious warmth. She glanced at him. His head drooped all the way to his chest, a sure sign of at least a half-doze. Her eyes flicked back to her sewing. Already, she imagined she could feel the cold freezing her hands in place, even as she tried to keep stitching. A chuckle bubbled in her throat. Yes, it was an excellent excuse. There would be nothing he could say to contradict her. And, after all, he did owe her for risking her fingers on his shirt's behalf.

_Besides, even boney Vince has got to be more comfortable than sleeping on the ground again… At least… he was the last time I did this…_

Memories of that night brought a faint blush to her cheeks, as well as a soft flutter within. The fear she'd felt back then had faded to the background, leaving only the fond memories of being able simply to sit with him, just as she simply sat with him now. Back when she'd made her promise to him…

The needle pricked her finger, hard. Biting back a yelp, she lifted it up for inspection, rolling her eyes at the tiny dot of blood that welled up. Sewing was not a good chore for wallowing in broken promises—especially now that she had such a golden opportunity to make it up to him.

He had to be cold. No one, not even Vincent the Stoic, could possibly be comfortable in this weather. Not without some other heat source. He couldn't possibly be sleeping well, therefore. Without proper rest, he'd fall terribly ill again, perhaps worse than before! Warming him up would be a favor—a part of her promise!

At least… that was the reasoning behind her next move.

Vincent jerked back into wakefulness as something warm flopped down beside him, leaning contentedly against his shoulder. His first instinct was to push away, to leave whatever cornered him. Said instinct was firmly squashed as he woke fully, taking into view a mop of dark brown hair, hunched over his shirt. Blankets hid the rest of the figure from sight, but it was enough. He sighed.

"Yuffie… what are you doing?"

"Keeping you warm, what's it look like?" she answered, not looking up from her work.

He arched an eyebrow. "I'm not cold."

"Pfft."

"What?"

She looked up at him, imitating his expression masterfully. "Yeah you are," she said. Dark eyes returned to the sewing. "Otherwise you'd be snoring by now. Not that I think you snore or anything," she added hastily. "But that's not the point. I mean, if you were all nice and comfy, you'd be out. But nope, you're wide awake! So, I'm gonna fix that for you."

His brows drew down. Either she was far more stubborn than he thought, or he was being very unclear. He opened his mouth to send her back to her space, but she cut him off, settling herself closer into his side, going so far as to lean her head against his shoulder.

"Don't even try," she warned.

He shook his head. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm cold too, y'know." Dark eyes again regarded crimson. "Body heat's the cure for it! Get used to it, I'm not moving. This way's best for both of us."

"You should've said something, then." He tugged at a corner of his cloak. "You could borrow this."

"And leave you miserable? Nuh-uh, Vinnie, I don't think so." She looked down again, and silence fell for a few beats. "You took care of me back there," Yuffie said, more quietly. "Now give me a chance, will ya?" Her fingers deftly picked out a bad stitch, setting a new one into place with uncharacteristic slowness. "We all need someone to look out for us. And we all need someone to look out for." Yet again, her head rolled up to look at him. A smirk blossomed across her face. "Besides, I promised you I'd take care of you."

His arguments died on his tongue. She was right—he had let her make that promise, hadn't he? With a sigh, he adjusted himself against the tree, to let her have more room, but she still kept close to him.

"I think you're missing the point of 'body heat' here, Vinnie," she informed him. "As in, you actually need another 'body' for the 'heat'. Not a tree and a chunk of grass where your rear used to be. Get over here. It's only for one night."

Another sigh escaped him. She took that as a good sign and promptly curled up beside him, keeping her eyes on her needlework, victorious.

He would not admit it until much later, but the warmth of the young woman beside him did add something to the comfort of his position. He would never admit that as he drifted off, he allowed his head to rest atop hers. It was just more comfortable this way. And, when she woke him for his turn at watch, he made no comment when she laid her head against his shoulder, curling into him with a contented sigh. Her hands folded under her chin, soaking in the warmth as best they could.

_We all need someone to look out for us… and we all need someone to look out for._

The words flickering in his mind, Vincent carefully draped a bit of cloak over her exposed hands, noting, with some amusement, the faint smile darting across her sleeping face.

* * *

And just to wet your appetite… stay with me for Part 7: _R.E.M_!

_"Rapid eye movement (REM) sleep is the stage of sleep characterized by rapid movements of the eyes. Most of the vividly recalled dreams occur during REM sleep. It is the lightest form of sleep, and people awakened during REM usually feel alert and refreshed. REM sleep is so physiologically different from the other phases of sleep that the others are collectively referred to as non-REM sleep."_

I'll let you draw your own conclusions… 


	7. REM

7. **Title**: R.E.M.

**Timeframe**: 1 Month after "_Conduction_" – So, basically, 6 Months post DoC  
**Rating**: K  
**Spoilers**: Very Mild DoC  
**Notes**: This is a hell of a lot shorter than I thought it would be… my apologies. I had a long set of readings and a test. The next scene will be longer.

"_Rapid eye movement (REM) sleep is the stage of __sleep__ characterized by rapid __movements of the eyes__. Most of the vividly recalled __dreams__ occur during REM sleep. It is the lightest form of sleep, and people awakened during REM usually feel alert and refreshed. REM sleep is so physiologically different from the other phases of sleep that the others are collectively referred to as __non-REM sleep__."_

* * *

They have come down to a routine. Months on the road have brought them to this predictable, safe point. 

She will wake, just as the sun rises, and disentangle herself from him. She has begun sleeping beside him. Nothing he does will break her of the habit. They do not share blankets, simply use each other as rather bony pillows. Despite the weather, she will find a place to exercise, to warm sleep-dulled muscles. The shuriken will fly, she will tumble and leap and spin alongside it.

Always, he rises after her. It is more out of a desire to give her privacy in their little camp than out of a real desire to sleep. He will put his cloak back on, leaving most buckles undone, saving them for later, and will move to stir up the fire. As he works, he cannot help but watch her move. He will make tea, or coffee, whichever is within reach at the moment.

As he drinks his, he will continue to watch her, whether out of interest or out of boredom, he doesn't know. She always notices, and always shoots him a smile. The smile is followed by more acrobatics, as if to impress him. When she finishes, she trots over, accepting a steaming cup. Sometimes, she will comment on the lack of breakfast, and he will move to correct the error. When this happens, she hastily takes over. The Turks leave little time for the culinary arts.

"_I'm surprised you don't burn _water_, Vince,"_ she will usually say.

Other times, she says nothing at all, and, flushed from exertion, she will take over the cooking. Either way, he sits back, cleaning his weaponry as she prepares what food they can spare. Over the food, she will always pepper him with questions in regards to his sleep. He nods in answer, or shakes his head, depending. Every time, she manages to turn the conversation to dreams.

"_You dream last night?"_

_Shake of head._

"_What? Again? Did you have a nightmare?"_

_Nearly imperceptible nod._

"_Man… Vince… don't you ever just… I dunno. Don't you ever just _dream_?"_

Always the same. She will always turn the conversation to that question. And he will always shake his head. The nightmares are not nearly so vivid, not nearly so consuming as once they were. Yet they linger all the same. Every day he wonders if he will, one day, break the cycle and begin to have dreams again. The guilt has dissipated, returned to the earth, to the Planet, along with his burden, and yet he cannot seem to rid himself of the nightmares.

Amidst his silence and her chatter, they will clean their campsite, before pressing on into the swamp. There, they will fight, cleansing the area of serpentine foes. Sometimes he is the one to come to her side, sometimes she is the one pulling him free of danger. It does not matter, however, so long as they both return, intact, to camp.

They return to their roles, he stirs the fire, she heats the remains of breakfast, and they sit, repairing what needs repairs, idly making attempts at conversation, until she falls asleep, nestled against his side. He will let her sleep for a few hours, then wake her for her watch. Sometime before dawn, they trade.

And, before the sun rises, she wakes again, and they begin their routine anew.

Occasionally, someone will call, breaking their system, throwing a wrench into the carefully laid schedule. She is always glad for the contact, chatting away. When she hands the phone to him, he makes his report in a few short sentences, then hand it back. The world beyond their camp feels like an intrusion. He has little desire to allow it in.

He has no idea when it happened.

Over the course of the months spent in the familiar system, he begins to realize something unsettling. He does not wish to inform her, as that would make it all the more real to him as well.

Yet, one morning, as he watches her tumble across the clearing, shuriken flashing in the pearl-colored dawn, he cannot keep the thought from crystallizing in his mind. Strangely, for the first time since the feeling, since the thoughts, crept up on him, he does not care. Telling her will break their routine, but… perhaps it is for the better.

She trots up, smiling as usual, and takes up the cooking. Her smile falters slightly as she notes the look in his eye.

"_What's wrong?"_

_He said nothing, simply poured her a drink. It was coffee that day. _

"_Did you have a nightmare again?"_

_He nodded._

"_I… I'm sorry." She closed dark eyes. "I wish that didn't happen to you all the time, y'know? I wish… you could just have a really great dream."_

_He felt a small sound escape him. It surprised her, and she looked up, nearly dropping the pan. She set it down instead, curiosity over his laughter winning over hunger. _

"_To be honest," he began, holding out her cup. "I think I'm dreaming now."_

_Her blush broke the peaceful monotony even more than her smile did. And, for once, he was glad of it._

"_This is _so_ not a dream. If it were a dream, see, there'd be a giant pink marshmallow in the sky instead of a sun."_

_He could only shake his head, dark hair not quite hiding the smirk plastered across pale lips. _


	8. Tactile

8. **Title**: _Tactile_

**Timeframe:** Two weeks after _"REM"_.  
**Rating:** T  
**Spoilers:** Maybe Mild DoC, I dunno.  
**Notes:** I seem to be having a love-affair with the theme of dreams in this fic. On another note entirely, this scene—or scenes—was inspired by an episode of _The X-Files_. I won't spoil it for any fellow fans, but, if you can pick it out, good on you!

"_Tactition tactile sense is the __sense__ of pressure __perception__. In the __skin__ there are different __receptors__ responsible for the detection of light against heavy pressure, as well as brief against sustained pressure. There are also distinct … receptors that cause the feeling of "tension", such as that associated with anxiety..."_

* * *

The day his nightmares ended was the day hers began.

They were occasionally reoccurring, but, sometimes, it seemed that her mind lived for nothing more than to stir up terrors to visit her in the night. At times, it was worse than when Meteor loomed high, a baleful eye where there once was a moon. Worse than the aftermath of Omega. Worse than waiting for him to wake up. At least, back then, she could look forward to an end, to a change to drive away the dreams. Now there seemed to be no end in sight.

She practically had them memorized.

The most frequent involved her sifting through the ruins of a city that looked suspiciously like Midgar. She would be alone, digging until her hands were like raw meat, and she could feel the sweat running down her face, her heart hammering away in her chest. Yet, no matter how deep she dug, she pulled up nothing more than refuse. Flies gathered. As the sun set in her dream, she would see that she dug not through garbage, but corpses, each one spilling blood into her hands.

That was the one she liked the most. In that dream, she could chalk the images up to nothing more than stress, to half-remembered images of her time with the evacuation Units while the others fought. It was the easiest to put away when morning came.

The worst always involved him.

In the dreams, she'd seen him battered, bruised, poisoned, and otherwise mutilated. Once, she even saw him fall from the sky, landing with horrific precision onto the top of a tree, spitting him all the way through until he hit the ground, in pieces. Another time, she heard the sharp crack of gunfire. It was followed closely by the wet thud of a body hitting the floor. She knew even before the dream revealed the limp and tattered cloak whose blood would be staining the ground.

It all happened before her eyes, though she never felt directly connected. It was as if she watched it all happen from a distance. And, despite the tears streaking her face, all she had to do was hear the sound of his voice, the dull _clunk_ of his boots against the ground, and the nightmares fell away.

And then it all changed. Then the dream came that she could not chase away, no matter how often she heard him speak, breathe. No matter how many times he asked her if she was all right. The shadow of the dream lingered all day, keeping her up when she desperately wanted to sleep. It was too real, too much like the hundreds of feverish "what ifs" that had run through her brain over six months ago.

_She is running. The streets are dark and broken around her, and debris clutters her pathway. She leaps over the obstacles, swinging over pits that have opened up as she runs. Her phone is ringing, but she does not answer. It is only a warning to stay away. And that is the one thing she cannot do._

_The others come into view now, standing in a ragged circle in a pale pool of light cast through the rubble above. All heads are bowed. No one speaks. It is a grim sight, made grimmer still by the heap of cloth lying at their feet. Their silence and their stillness frightens her. If there were hope, they would be moving, they would be talking with each other._

_A figure detaches from the shadows as she nears, holding up large, steadying hands. Light glints off metal, and for a moment, her heart leaps in hope. Then she realizes the metal is silver, not ruddy gold. It lies on the wrong hand. She feels her heart sink. _

"_Y'don't wanna see this, kid," the grating voice tells her. "It ain't good."_

_She crashes into him, bouncing off—he is a mountain compared to her. Even so, she grips his shirt, staring up into his face. "I need to see! I need to see if it's him!" she cries. "Let me see him!"_

_The big head shakes, slowly, the corners of his eyes—darker than hers—crinkle up. He is trying not to break. "It's him… but…"_

_She doesn't let him finish. She breaks away, tearing towards the circle, calling his name. Behind her, big hands grope for her shoulders, trying to keep her back, keep her from seeing this. Somehow, she avoids his concern and falls to her knees beside the too-still body._

_Red eyes are shut. Were he not so still, he would have only been asleep. She is shaking, burying her hands in tangled, black hair, hands desperately seeking the pale throat. Blood covers the body, tracing sticky, dark trails across skin, leather and cloth. She does not stop, not even when it coats her own searching fingers. They find his throat, pressing wildly against it. Her voice is screaming…_

"_He needs help! Someone help me! Someone help him!"_

…_even as she tries, unsuccessfully, unaided, to do what she asks others to. She can see, through the panic, the unnatural angle of his head, the contortion of his torso. Something is very wrong, something not even medicine can fix. He lies too twisted to be pieced together again._

"_He needs help!"_

_Strong, feminine hands pry her away, and press her against a chest that smells of nicotine. She struggles, but the pilot now has his arms around her in an embrace he would never offer otherwise. He will not let her look, even when she pounds her fists against him, screaming. _

"_Shut up, Yuffie," he says to her, voice so thick she cannot tell if he is angry or grieving. "Shut the hell up."_

_She keeps screaming. Something has to drown out the sound of the guilt, of the others speaking in hushed tones over the body. Something has to keep her mouth from saying…_

"_If I were here sooner, I could have helped him! I could have saved him!"_

_The arms around her tighten, as if trying to drown out the sound of questions. What do we do with the body? Should we bury it? She wants to curse the others, tell them the body is not an "it". He's still there, still waiting to be saved._

"_It's my fault."_

That was always when she woke, biting hard on her lip to keep the dreams' cries from crossing into waking reality.

Today was no different, save that the inn had only one room available—ironically enough. She couldn't have had any other dream that night, no sir. It absolutely had to be the dream that left her pale and shaking, face pressed hard into the pillow for fear of opening her eyes to find the nightmare had not ended. She lay as still as possible. The next bed was visible out of the corner of her eye, its occupant curled on his side, facing her direction. Frantic, she looked away.

_He's asleep, stupid, _she told herself. _It's not even morning! He's _asleep_! Get over yourself!_

Her lungs informed her that if she held her breath any longer, she would suffocate. If she inhaled, she knew, the scream would not stay down. Slowly, she took a breath. It hitched in her throat. The sound froze her in place, even as it shuddered out in exhalation. Surely, he'd heard. However, no such acknowledgement came, and she relaxed a hair.

But with relaxation came the sobs. She flattened her face into the sheets, the pillow, trying to smother the sound. _Stupid! Stupid dream, _the rational part of her mind said. _It's just a dream! I know it's just a dream! It doesn't mean anything…! Go back to sleep!_

The tears didn't stop. Any other dream would have her back to sleep in minutes. This one… this one refused to be chased away. It wanted her focus, wanted her to remember. She held her breath, but it only left her gasping softly for more air to cry with. Somehow, she had to calm down. He wasn't supposed to see her like this. She was supposed to be the joyful one, the spark of light. What would he think to see her worrying over something as ridiculous as a dream? If she didn't shut herself up soon, she'd find out exactly what he thought…

A squeak of bedsprings betrayed him, stopping her heart in the same instant.

"Yuffie…?" His gravely voice was blurred with sleep. "What's wrong—"

"I'm fine!" she said quickly. "Just… just a dream. I… I'll get over it."

Two _thuds_ as his feet touched the floor. "Dream?" She could almost hear the raised eyebrow. "How bad?"

"Who said it was bad?"

The floor creaked as he moved. "Would you be crying if…" he paused. "it were about something good?" His voice came from above her—he was standing.

"Go back to bed, Vince," she said. Her voice sounded weak. "It's just a bad dream, okay?"

Her bed creaked as new weight settled at its foot. Surprised, she sat up, meeting red eyes. As she'd thought, he had an eyebrow raised at her. He sat loosely, elbows resting light atop his knees, every lanky inch of him so much more alive than the twisted thing of her nightmare, that she felt her chest constrict. This was real. This was no dream…

_This isn't a dream… right…? What… what if it is…?_

It was suddenly hard to see through the mist in her eyes. She didn't see him hold out his hand to her, trying to offer some form of comfort. All she saw was his image fading from sight. Seeing him was not enough. Hearing his voice was not enough. You could see and hear in dreams, after all.

Before she realized what she was doing, she had thrown herself at him, squeezing tightly when her arms wrapped around him.

They ended up on the floor, a confused, tearful tangle of limbs. He soon righted them, though he was unable to pry her arms out of their stranglehold. Still in tears, she wobbled crazily. He coaxed her into lying down again, though she could only do so if he sat beside her, allowing her to grip his hand. Sitting cross-legged, he leaned himself back against the pillows, sensing a long stretch until morning. She propped her head against his thigh, tracing the shallow lines in his hand with one finger, as if to memorize them.

"Sometimes," he ventured. "it helps to talk…"

She shook her head, for once, the mute.

"What, then, do you suggest?" he asked. Her touch was feather-light, but he found himself nearly wishing she'd stop. It was distracting.

In answer, she rolled over, pulling his arm around her shoulders like a blanket. For the second time that night, he found himself sprawled across her. He gave a few, confused, tugs to loosen her grip, but ultimately gave up. It wasn't worth fighting, really. Instead, he propped himself up on the claw, lying on his side, watching her fall into sleep and waiting for morning.

Sometime, in the dark before dawn, she half-woke. With a sigh, she turned her head into his chest, lulled back to sleep by the familiar sensation of his leathers against her skin.


	9. Drug

**9. Title:** _Drug_

**Timeframe**: One year after DoC  
**Rating**: K+  
**Spoilers**: Moderate DoC  
**Notes**: It had to come out sometime… and who better to see it than Ms. Unrequited Affections herself? I really don't know my stance on Cloud/Tifa. I like it if it's done well, I guess. I dunno.

Sorry this is so late! This was somehow harder to write than the others… Huh.

"_Warning: May cause heart palpitations. Dependency may occur. Consult doctor for further use."  
–Drug warning label. _

* * *

"What's _she_ doing here?"

Startled by the anger in the younger woman's voice, Tifa looked up from the table. Leaning on the half-cleaned surface, she followed the dark-eyed gaze to the front door, where a pair of familiar figures stood, one already moving towards a corner table. A chorus of gruff male voices welcomed him over. He took a seat, careful not to disturb the cut of his uniform, and the two older men dealt him into the game, their heads already wreathed in Cid's smoke. The other new arrival stayed rooted to the spot, tucking short, pale-brown hair behind her ears.

With a sigh, Tifa bent back to work. "Shelke has as much of a right to visit as you do, Yuffie."

The ninja swung her legs back and forth on the stool. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered.

As much as she tried, she couldn't find it in herself to like the girl. Everything she did rubbed Yuffie the wrong way. No matter how much time passed, Shelke never seemed to change more than her clothing. Her voice remained the same—a grating monotone, Yuffie thought—and it seemed to be hard for her to form connections deeper than that of acquaintances. From Yuffie's perspective, that sort of stubbornness was worse than even Vincent's. He, at least, had horrible trauma—or something, she was never quite sure what exactly the whole "Giant materia chick" issue had been—to keep him set in his ways.

Much to her chagrin, the girl approached, and Yuffie braced herself for whatever bomb Shelke was probably going to drop. She never brought good news—not even on her sporadic visits with her employer. As always, Tifa greeted her warmly. The welcome appeared to fall on deaf ears. Cool, mako-eyes regarded the two women, Yuffie especially. The ninja kept her own eyes on the bar and her glass.

"Is Vincent here?"

"I think he's upstairs, talking to Cloud," replied Tifa, easily covering her friend's stubborn silence. "That is, if you call what those two do 'talking'." There was a definite, teasing smile in her voice.

Without a reply—perhaps she nodded her head, Yuffie didn't look up to check—Shelke headed for the stairs.

The passing of time grated at her. Each time she looked up at the clock, part of her willed it to slow down or to stop altogether. The times when she looked over at the stairs were the worst. Especially after Cloud had come down. Occasionally, someone would yell at her to join the game, or get them more drinks. She shook her head at their requests, and it was up to Tifa to do her job. All she could do was sit there, waiting, bruising her hand by clenching her fists. She didn't even realize she'd been doing so until Tifa gently, yet firmly, uncurled them for her.

"What's the matter?"

"Huh?" She managed to tear her eyes away from the stairs long enough to meet her friend's eyes. "I'm okay!"

Tifa's skeptical expression looked remarkably like Cloud's, save for the smile. " 'Okay' never means staring off into space for two hours, looking fit to kill," she said. Resting her elbows on the counter, she leaned down to look Yuffie in the eye. "What's on your mind?"

She pushed her empty glass across the bar. It was infinitely more interesting than anything else in the room. "What's she got to talk about anyway?" she muttered, well aware of how childish the words sounded. "I can't even get a real conversation outta the guy and she's been up there two whole _hours_! What's so interesting about a stupid computer anyway? I mean, that's all she really is…"

"You're jealous?"

The words stopped her rant in its tracks. "I'm… what?" she managed, feeling her cheeks color. "I am not!"

_Am I? _

"It's all right, Yuffie." The smile was back in Tifa's voice. "I understand. If it were me, in your situation, I don't think I'd be happy with this either." She stood, turning to clean one of the glasses their card-shark friends had accumulated. "But, really, they're just friends, I think… You don't have to worry about that."

"And why would I be worried?" she shot back, folding her arms.

When Tifa turned back around, Yuffie was fully prepared to explain away any conclusion the other woman had drawn. And to do so with all the indignation her slight body could muster. However, the next words left all her carefully organized explanations hanging in the wind, blown away.

"Because, you love him, don't you?"

Innocent enough, but they froze her all the same. "I… what…?" was all that would come. Not even hot anger, not even resentment, could thaw the sudden, cold realization that slowly drew itself over her. Her heart hammered in her chest, so loud she swore the entire bar could hear. She wanted to deny it.

_But, that would be a lie, wouldn't it?_

She cared for him, sure. It was hard not to care about someone whose life you kept saving, someone who you'd been traveling with for years. They were partners, they were friends. Of course she'd come to care for him. But love?

_Think about it, stupid. You know him better than anyone. You've lived with him out on assignment for ages. Hell, you're practically sleeping together._

That wasn't love, was it? Love wasn't what she felt. Love was something that turned you into a fawning pile of goo that took long walks in parks, held hands constantly, or left you whispering simpering nothings at the object of your affections.

_All right, but look at Cid. He's in love too, right? Has he changed much? At all?_

A glance in the pilot's general direction answered that question—and it was very much a "no". What exactly was love then? How did it apply to Vincent and herself?

_You want to protect him. You don't want to leave his side. You take care of him. You want to make him smile, ruffle his feathers. You want him to be happy—if that's even remotely possible. And it irks you when someone else does it before you do._

Could that mean…?

"I don't know," she murmured. "I really don't know…" She couldn't look up.

Tifa started to speak, but the sound of feet, metal-shod feet, on the stairs cut her off. The ninja's heart skipped a beat. At the first sight of the familiar black and red attire, the omnipresent lack of expression, she felt her pulse settle. He met her glance, nodded, then headed for the direction of the card game, summoned by the gamblers' demands.

Despite herself, she felt herself relax. When he turned those eyes on her, she felt, she knew, nothing could go wrong. She'd grown so used to it, out on the road. She had no idea being deprived of even that minimal regard could send her through such a withdrawal.

_Told you so._

Something must have changed in her eyes, for Tifa reached out, taking her hands. "You need to tell him," she whispered. "He needs to know."

She felt herself go cold again. "I can't… I mean… what if… but there's still… What if he's… and that materia chick…" All her excuses seemed to dry up under the other woman's scrutiny.

"Yuffie, listen." Now it was Tifa's turn to examine her hands. "You should tell him. The worst that can happen…" Her warm gaze turned then toward the table, falling over their second silent companion. The smile she wore turned sad. "The worst that can happen is that nothing changes… that you stay the way you've always been… friends." She sighed softly. "And, there's nothing wrong with that, now is there?"

No further words came. She could only offer her friend a squeeze of hand before Tifa pulled away, going back to her duties with a smile that only seemed a little forced. Still, Yuffie said nothing. They both had their problems, but nothing seemed fully capable of curing either one, save the option they were loathe to try.


End file.
